Questions and Answers
by RockinJanelle
Summary: "We're going to play a game." "What are the rules?" Mystrade. M for later chapters. Series.
1. Part 1

**Title: **"Questions and Answers"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_Ongoing; multi-chaptered. This chapter = ~3,600_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>M  
><strong><br>A/N: Ohh shit guys, it's my first M story for Mystrade! I can't wait! On my tumblr (which is my penname, followed by tumblr's url) I've been dreading this fic since I first started it. It's ridiculous.**

**Um, few things:**

**1) the story is already written. You can't really change much on it, unless you give me something to work with. And that might not even work;**

**2) YES, I realize it's close to "Multiples", which is a Johnlock fic that goes like this, sort of. I'm not trying to copy. I actually thought about this idea in my sleep and thought I would write it. Then it turned out to be "Multiples" part deux. So, sorry.**

**3) "M" part comes later. This is basically T stuff. Wait until the next parts.**

**Enjoy!**

**(Oh, one more thing: italics basically mean the other person on the phone. It's quite simple to understand.**

**Just kidding another thing: Someone on another story reviewed and asked if I had any more stories. I do here, but on my tumblr account, you can see me do some mini-prompts sometimes. You should recommend me some prompts! I love writing these two, or Johnlock. Either or.)**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

_"Hello, Detective Inspector! Welcome, welcome. Glad you could join me. I must say, you are looking quite exhausted—has my dear Sherlock been using you to find me? Well here I am! Oh, it's magnificent! You'll be getting a medal for this, yes you will. The government will be pleased to find me alive and well so they can imprison me in a single cell all to myself, so I can play all the games in the world. Won't that be fun? Oh, but I should warn you—maybe I shouldn't. You know, it is more fun this way, playing games with each other. It's lovely to have competition every now and then. No, I'm not that daft. Two rules are in need of knowing in order to win this game: one, you mustn't make a sound; two, if you do, I will not hesitate to kill you. It's not as though you can speak right now, but do try not to give Sherlock dear any hints during our little meeting. I can't bear to see him solve a case when everything is right there in front of him. Come come, don't be ridiculous, he is not intelligent when that happens. I want him to set the world on fire—show me that he has what it takes to be just like little old me. And you know what? I think we should."_

_**x x x x x **_

"Mycroft, you can see yourself out."

"Sherlock, it is not healthy to be this involved in a case. You have no authorization to pursue the man at hand."

"He tried killing us both, brother. I find it hard to believe that is not enough authorization."

"The government can take care of things from here."

"The government—what has it done for us recently, brother? The longer we sit here, the longer he is out there, plotting against us."

"The longer we are here, the more you wish to be with another sociopath solving another ridiculous case."

"So much for brotherly love."

In 221B Baker Street, Mycroft and Sherlock sat across from each other. John, on the other hand, had just returned from the bedroom, awakened by the arbitrary argument going on in the den. He would be in his own bed above the flat, but Sherlock had botched some kind of experiment in his room—something to do with chemicals and a severed hand. So he was stuck with sleeping with Sherlock. It was hard enough to get some kind of sleep when Sherlock was on a case (and this case, Moriarty's, it had been going on long enough), but when the brothers were together? There was no point to try. John tried to make sense of it, through the door, but it was pointless. They were just going back and forth.

"It would help if the government could actually give me some kind of useful information. I could've found that out on my own by walking outside."

"I cannot give you all the information, Sherlock. You know we have tried that once before."

John shook his head and continued to stand in the kitchen. It never made sense how the two were brothers in the first place; they looked nothing alike. They acted the same way (Lestrade liked to call them stubborn brats whenever he came over), but they could've been friends at Uni. John noticed how Sherlock could stare at Mycroft with the coldest glare, but Mycroft would be unmoved by his attempts to kick him out of the flat; he'd just spin that damned umbrella around, or play with his phone.

"Have you gotten much sleep, brother? You hardly look well."

"I do not need sleep, not when he is out there."

Then John would catch moments like that. It was obvious that Mycroft cared about his brother, but it was like they could only show affection through fighting—Sherlock would never praise his brother, not when Mycroft was in the same room at least. Yes, much to his surprise, Sherlock did talk some praise about his brother when in private quarters. He could only think of one incident, when both he and Sherlock were in the bedroom, and he quietly said: "Mycroft tries too hard sometimes. He should get some rest." It was not high praise, no, but it was something that showed a bit of caring through the sociopath. Though, he just continuously argued, as if that was the way to say "I care about you, too."

John was going to step out for a bit and talk to Mrs. Hudson, but then he heard a phone ring. He looked at the two in the den and noticed neither one of them making a move to get the phone—had they heard it? No, it didn't seem like it; Sherlock was now arguing to Mycroft about the Russian economy. John scoured around the area, but found no phone in sight. Where was it, exactly? He moved back to the bedroom, leaving the two brothers alone again.

As they argued, the phone ring was a little louder. He scanned what he could see, but saw nothing flashing or in plain sight, rather. He stepped over to the dresser near the bed (Sherlock liked to have a table near his pillow, in case Lestrade suddenly called in the middle of the night) and heard something vibrating in the drawer. Pausing, he wondered why a phone was in the drawer in the first place. Hadn't Sherlock carried his phone everywhere he went? He pulled it open and looked down, his eyes slowly widening. He snatched the phone from the resting place and stared at the screen. He knew the number, yes, but he didn't know why he was calling this phone. Why was it this phone? Did the man know the number to this phone? John quickly stepped out of the bedroom.

When he stepped back into the kitchen, he saw Mycroft standing to the side, staring out the window. Sherlock had his arms crossed, still staring at the chair Mycroft once occupied. Mycroft turned to his brother, then his eyes glanced up to John. "Oh, Dr. Watson. Does my incessant brother have a phone call he needs attending to?" Sherlock looked up at John, then slightly, only slightly, turned his head when he did.

"John," he whispered. He quickly uncrossed his hands and rose from his chair. Staring at his flatmate, he had his eyes fall to the phone in John's hand.

"Sherlock," Mycroft looked at the back of Sherlock's head and rose an eyebrow.

"What is the number?" Sherlock asked. He looked back at his brother and stood there. "You should write the number down, if it is not blocked. We are dealing with a sociopath. Be useful, Mycroft," he turned back to John and watched his partner stoically stand there. John didn't look down.

"It's Lestrade's," Mycroft turned his head to the doctor.

"Lestrade?" Mycroft looked down at his phone and scanned the screen. There were no new messages, even though he had been texting his partner the entire afternoon. Sherlock stepped over the furniture to quickly stand near John, looking down at the screen. Sure enough, "DI Lestrade" was on the screen.

"I had programmed all the names that I cared for into the phone, in case he did something like this," Mycroft didn't look over at the two. He just stared at his screen. Had something happened?

John and Sherlock shared eye contact before both nodding. They had to answer it; something could've happened. Clicking the 'answer' button, they held the phone in the air, a little static silencing the air in the flat. Mycroft looked out the window and saw the black car outside the flat. He really should be leaving—but it interested him. He looked at the two in the kitchen and stood there with them, listening for anything to make a sound.

Then, something eerie reached their ears._ "Hi!"_ Sherlock and John met eye contact again; Mycroft watched the stillness in their bodies._ "Oh, my boys, I know you can hear me. You too, government. I must say, it's quite the crowd today."_ Sherlock straightened his posture and turned his head. He saw his brother keep his composure, although he knew what his brother was thinking. Mycroft stepped away from the window. He felt vulnerable. _"Oh, silly, don't move away. I was loving the view, honestly."_

Sherlock turned his attention back to the phone. "You call with your own voice. A change. What do you want this time, Moriarty?"A sudden fit of chuckles came through the receiver.

_"Ah, my Sherlock! I knew you'd love to hear my voice. Is dear John around? I'm sure he is, your pet is always by your side,"_ Mycroft stood near the window and glanced outside. There were no cameras on the street, nor were there any cameras in the flat (that were not Mycroft's)—he would've been alarmed if they were intercepted. So the man was nearby. He scanned the nearby buildings; he couldn't see anything._ "I only want to hear your lovely voice, my dear. I don't suppose you backed off my trail, though. Tsk, tsk, love."_

Sherlock did nothing. "You knew I would not back down from this game. You set it up where I could not escape. Clever, but you know I will find you." Moriarty hummed.

_"Hmm, I do suppose that is the case. You are the only consulting detective in the world; you'll find the criminal in the long run. Dear Sherlock, how long do you want to keep running after me, though? It will surely tire you out,"_ Mycroft held his phone in his hand, texting his secretary ("Andromeda" is what she wanted to be named), but then he suddenly saw a red light shining through the window. A red dot appeared on his chest. He lifted his eyes to the colorless windows and held out his hands.

"I will find you."

_"I find that hard to believe,"_ Moriarty darkly replied. Then, a little squeak came from the floor; Moriarty was moving around. _"Ah, government! Have you a phone on you? Naughty man, you need to keep that in your pants,"_ Mycroft looked out to the windows and noticed one of the curtains on the windows slightly inch away from the panes. He found where Moriarty was located. The building had been abandoned for years; Mycroft was hearing rumors of demolishing it for quite some time, but the neighborhood has been thinking of turning it into flats again. All he knew of the building was the people of the building were evacuated years ago because of some toxin, and all their belongings couldn't go with them. It was horrific. _"I am waving, although I do not know if you can see it. I know you see the window."_ Sherlock turned around.

"Where is he, Mycroft?" Mycroft did not look away. The window would be his target.

_"Go ahead, Mycroft Holmes,"_ Moriarty drawled his named out. Mycroft could still feel the red dot on his chest. _"Tell him what you see."_

He kept silent. "Mycroft," Sherlock demanded. Mycroft did not look away, but he did speak.

"Tell me," he calmly said; he had been aimed at countless times, he knew the drill, "why are you calling from a Detective Inspector's phone?"

A boisterous laugh echoed the flat; Mycroft saw the curtain pull back to its original position. Those in the flat could hear his feet stomping and thrashing about, seamlessly crashing through the floorboards in the distance. Mycroft waited for some kind of movement, then got a text. Carefully, he looked at the screen: Drop the phone and your life will not end. His arms relaxed, his hands by his sides. Then he threw the phone on the table right in front of him; the red dot disappeared.

_"Oh, you are quite the riot, government! Although, you are no fun! You really want to not play our little game? Oh, that's okay. Sherlock, dear, I must leave you, but don't hang up! You can listen if you like. This phone conversation was not meant for you. Do try not to miss our little night conversations we have,"_ Sherlock bit inside his lip, then tore away from the phone. With his back turned, he stared at Mycroft, who was still looking out the window. _"Government! You have a phone call!"_ Mycroft turned his head to those in the kitchen; Sherlock turned back to the phone.

"This game is between you and I, Moriarty," Sherlock could feel the smile Moriarty held.

_"I'm adding players, my dear. I hope you don't mind,"_ Sherlock heard small footsteps coming near him; he turned and saw Mycroft next to them. _"Oh, government! You joined us! How nice of you. Has Sherlock dear informed you of our little game?"_ Mycroft looked over at his brother.

"I have been informed of as much of the game as one can have. Although, there are two parts; which are we playing? The one where you kill him? Or burn the heart out of him?" Moriarty moaned in sweet delight.

_"Ooooooh, you are good! You are not the government for any reason, no, no, no. Is that why the Detective Inspector loves you so?"_ Mycroft tore his eyes away from his brother's gaze and stared down at the phone's screen. How did this criminal know about his personal life? _"Oh! Silence! Is this the first time the British Government had been silenced? It must be. I must've guessed right,"_ Mycroft looked at neither John nor Sherlock; he was too focused on the phone.

"Where is he?" Moriarty hummed again.

_"Oh, your precious Detective Inspector is sitting right next to me. He's in quite a bind, though,"_ Mycroft understood. He dealt with hostage situations before, he knew the codes._ "Now, now, what are we doing over here? Nothing yet, but you and I, government, we're going to do something fun. We're going to play a game."_

Mycroft frowned. "What are the rules?"

**x x x x x**

Lestrade could feel his head pounding. He tried to remember how he got here in the first place. Okay, he thought, I was going to Sherlock's flat—was it thirty minutes ago?—when someone in a building called me inside about some disturbance. It was a tall man, dark hair. He was friendly. He led me up the stairs, quite a few flights, talking about something. I was led down a hallway, full of turns—I have no idea where he was taking me—and finally we stopped at a door. There seemed to be some screaming inside, so I told him to step back. I knocked down the door and—that's it. He must've hit me on the head to knock me unconscious. Bloody bastard.

Lestrade looked around the room. There were no lights, just the light outside. There was a man by the window holding what appeared to be a sniper, smoking a cigarette. He had the same build as the man downstairs—probably was the same man. Then there was a smaller man, jumping around with a phone in his hand. He was getting excited about something, laughing and carrying on. He would run back and forth between the window and Lestrade, smiling more and more. He was having fun.

The smaller man hopped over to where he was sitting—he was trying to get out of the ropes, but there was no point. The smaller man pulled his head back and exposed his neck, tearing at his hair. The smaller man—was this Moriarty? Everything was a blur—had the biggest smile on his face. It was like the man was growing to like this fond phone call, whoever was on the other line (Lestrade couldn't stay awake half the time). "Ooooooh, you are good!" Lestrade noticed how the man's face twisted in every direction, how his mouth was loud and his voice rambunctious. "You are not the government for any reason, no, no, no. Is that why the Detective Inspector loves you?" Government?

Mycroft?

Lestrade thrashed about in the chair; Moriarty put a knee right into his stomach. Lestrade felt it push against some of the internal organs; he bit down on the duct tape in his mouth. He stared directly up at the man, who now was frowning. Moriarty, still holding his head, smirked. "Oh! Silence! Is this the first time the British Government had been silenced? It must be. I must've guessed right," Lestrade felt Moriarty loosen his grip on Lestrade's hair, but still combing through it, as if to calm him down. But he was feeling his anger grow. How he wanted to scream (the duct tape, however, was proving most difficult).

_"Where is he?"_ Lestrade blinked; he knew his gaze softened. He moved his gaze over at the phone and stared at the black thing. It looked like his phone—oh, no, it was his phone. Moriarty slid away from Lestrade, his knee leaving his stomach. Lestrade wheezed a few times, quietly, and Moriarty started to walk around Lestrade. How he wanted to stare at the phone, to hear Mycroft's voice again. He didn't know what he was getting into being in the chair—what was going to happen?

"Oh, your precious Detective Inspector is sitting right next to me. He's in quite a bind, though," Lestrade felt Moriarty's fingers trickle down his arms, tracing over the rope that held him down. Then he felt his fingers circle around his fists, somehow wanting him to relax. It wasn't helping. "Now, now, what are we doing over here? Nothing yet, but you and I, government, we're going to do something fun. We're going to play a game." Lestrade felt his hands slowly making their way up his back and then brushing around his hair; Lestrade was terrified.

_"What are the rules?"_ Lestrade heard the interest in Mycroft's voice. If I make it out alive, he thought, I'm punching him.

Moriarty started to jump around. "Exciting! How exciting! You are quite the player, government. Get your brother to be this way, he's such a tease," Lestrade felt him brush pass his chair—the wind was nice and cool—and rush over to the window, staring out the old curtains. Lestrade looked around again. It was a normal flat, nothing special. He wondered if that was a bed next to him. Or maybe it was a table. He couldn't tell. "First step, come to the window."

Lestrade wanted to see his partner. He felt his legs starting to bounce, wanting to run over to the window and stare out. He knew he was still across the street. It wasn't like he was across town. He heard slight footsteps on the other line skip across that floorboard. Lestrade closed his eyes. His head was a mess. Moriarty made a slight move and started to talk to Lestrade. "Oh, it looks as though only Mycroft Holmes is coming to the window! How did your pet give up that phone, dear Sherlock?" Lestrade tried not to listen. He didn't want to anyway. "Now, don't move. If you move, your poor little Detective Inspector will be getting quite the treatment by yours truly, and we don't want to get my hands dirty," Lestrade opened his eyes and leaned his head back. Oh, Christ, he was getting tortured? He listened to the enthusiasm of Moriarty laugh through the walls.

_"You have my word, James Moriarty,"_ the criminal chuckled; Lestrade felt the strings played at. Was that a wrong thing to do?

"Careful with that name, it's killed thousands," Lestrade prayed his name would not be added to the list. "Now, are you ready for the rules? You don't have to do anything but stand there! It's quite simple on your part. However, you will answer," Moriarty looked over at Lestrade, smiling. "10 questions. If you answer 5 correctly, you win your precious Detective Inspector back! If you get 5 wrong, sorry, love, your heart will be burned." Lestrade watched as the sniper rose. "For every question you answer right, your partner here will have a rope detached. For every question answered wrong, my pet here—Sherlock, dear, I have one too, you should meet him—will hurt your Detective Inspector. Are you ready?"

Lestrade felt the silence intensify tenfold. If a pin were to drop in the room, it would scare him to his core. He tried to figure out what Mycroft would be thinking at that time, wondering if he was scared just like he was then (truth be told, Mycroft would be terrified for both their lives). Then he heard Mycroft laugh a little.

_"And what happens to you in the end if I win? Greg will not stand for his life to be spared while you go back on the run,"_ Lestrade shook his head and chuckled; goddamn that man, he thought. Moriarty started to move his head from side to side, watching the man across the street. Then he smiled.

"If you win, you can have me, government. But if you lose, tsk tsk, you'll have to let me go. And not only that, but you will stop playing Sherlock's game for him. He deserves to have a little fun by himself. So, are you ready?" Lestrade saw the sniper tower over him, his dark eyes staring right into his eyes. He wondered what would happen to that man if Mycroft won—when Mycroft would win.

_"I cannot decline a challenge,"_ Lestrade sighed. He sounded so smug, that bastard. Moriarty kept his eyes on the window, but he was eager to play. He was so excited.

"Brilliant! Let's play." Lestrade was not ready, but he knew what he had to do. He had to play the game.


	2. Part 2

**Title: **"Questions and Answers"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_Ongoing; multi-chaptered. This chapter = ~4,200_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>M  
><strong><br>A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews! They make me smile. And also for those that put me on an alert/favorite stories! That's amazing!**

**Bit of a warning: It starts getting a little...grotesque/uncomfortable. Just so you know or are aware.**

**Also: I can be rather a bitch about cliffhangers and when to end chapters. I'm just saying, you might be a little mad at me for it.**

**Enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

Mycroft looked right at Moriarty. He could barely make him out, but he felt as though he could see that damned smile a mile away. It wasn't haunting, or taunting, much less daunting—he had seen the smile of sociopaths before. John was sitting near the table; Sherlock was in one of the plush chairs, tapping his fingers against the arms of the chair. "He should not pry into others' business; this is between him and I," Sherlock mumbled. John looked back at his flatmate, shaking his head.

"There should be nothing between you and him in the first place," he whispered. Sherlock met John's eyes and continued to tap his fingers. Mycroft started to tap his foot.

"You know we are both the same, we are bound to cross paths wherever we go," he remarked.

John shook his head. "You would never do this." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but did not say a word.

Mycroft did not break his eye contact with Moriarty. He heard a small giggle come from Moriarty. He leaned against the wall next to the window. He realized it would be quite some time before Lestrade was released (of course he would be released, there was no reason to doubt the great Mycroft Holmes).

_"Oh, dear, here is your first question. I do hope you get this question right—well, I won't tell you what'll happen to your partner here,"_ Sherlock and John looked at Mycroft. He just stood there, eyes straight. _"Have you told Sherlock the extent of my crimes?"_ Mycroft blinked.

"No," he whispered. It was a quick response, Sherlock noted. He narrowed his eyes.

"What have you not told me, brother?" John noticed the stoic form Mycroft held; nothing. John looked back at Sherlock, who was rather annoyed at the fact that something was kept from him.

_"Good, good! You are correct! Don't ask how I know, I can tell just by your answer and stoic form,"_ Mycroft felt vulnerable still, but he kept his focus on the little game at hand. _"My, my, you are quite the lovely gentleman in a suit. I see why the man I hold here finds you rather dashing,"_ Mycroft did not move.

"We are playing a game, James. Do try to keep yourself focused," Moriarty groaned.

_"Again with that name,"_ Mycroft slightly turned his head at the sound. It sounded like…disgust._ "Do not push your limits, government, you might regret that decision quick,"_ Mycroft smirked; he figured out a weak spot in a criminal._ "Oh, pet, untie him. Take the rope around the waist, otherwise he'll start to fight, and we can't have that yet!"_ Mycroft tried hearing anything in the background, but Lestrade said nothing. Moriarty spoke again as soon as Lestrade was untied. _"Question two, government. How many men do you have outside this building?"_ Mycroft straightened his posture; how did the criminal know about the men? He had not only tried to send out one text, no, that would be quite a shame on his part, especially with such technology at his hands. His eyes flashed down at the streets, seeing dozens of his men (and women) walking around, looking as though they were average citizens. There was no way, he was trying to trick him. Mycroft clicked his heel against the floorboards. But would he risk such a thing as Lestrade's life?

"Thirteen," he commented. Moriarty put his finger on the glass of the window and traced a letter. It was an 'x'. Mycroft did not move. He danced with the Devil and lost. He would have to apologize to Lestrade at another time, in another place.

_"Oh, government, you cannot lie to me. I see at least 40 men on the ground alone. Don't take me for a fool,"_ Mycroft saw Moriarty tear his finger away from the glass. _"Sorry, dear, it looks as though your partner here will need a bit of treatment for your mistake."_ As Moriarty got closer to Lestrade, he could hear someone heavily breathing; it had to be Lestrade. _"We'll start off small,"_ the voice grew quiet. Mycroft looked at his phone on the table, thought, but looked back to the window. _"Five pistol whips,"_ Moriarty commented. A few footsteps were heard, followed by more breathing.

Mycroft had to listen.

**x x x x x **

Lestrade closed his eyes—damn Mycroft. Damn him to hell. He knew that was the wrong answer; Mycroft always hesitated when he wanted to lie.

He first noticed that little trait when Lestrade was wearing a suit for the job. "What do you think of the tie?" asked Lestrade. Mycroft glanced from his paperwork, stared at him, and hadn't said a word for nearly a minute.

Finally, he said, "It's charming." Lestrade quickly changed ties.

"Oh, government, you cannot lie to me. I see at least 40 men on the ground alone. Don't take me for a fool," Moriarty turned from the window and smiled over at him in the chair. "Sorry, dear," was he apologizing to Lestrade? He couldn't tell. "it looks as though your partner here will need a bit of treatment for your mistake. We'll start off small," Moriarty walked over to the partner, turned his head, and added: "Five pistol whips."

Lestrade felt his heart rate fasten, his breathing get heavier. Christ, that was what he called "small"? He had been pistol whipped before; it hurt like hell. The sniper next to him walked over to the bed—or table, whatever it was—and grabbed a black pistol. It was not loaded. Lestrade noticed him make a firm grip around the gun. Lestrade leaned back in the chair, struggling to get out. There was no use. Moriarty just smiled at the man in the chair. "Oh, my dear government, you should see him squirm. Here, do you want to hear him? He can't talk, he's a little preoccupied, but you can hear him get punished for your wrongdoings," Lestrade noticed Moriarty inch closer to him. Lestrade saw the sniper step in front of him.

He stared the sniper in the eyes. He hoped his eyes said: "Go ahead, you son of a bitch." But it probably looked as though he was scared. "Aw, your pet is quite the tough one, it looks like. We'll see how he looks after being pummeled five times."Lestrade grinded his teeth together, the taste of duct tape against his tongue; he watched the sniper play around with this grip. Any moment now, he thought.

The phone was held out to Lestrade; he looked over at the phone for a quick second.

He could see the wallpaper. It was of him and Mycroft, from almost a year ago. They were over at Mycroft's place for the evening, all of them, and Lestrade and him were in the kitchen. Mycroft had made a joke about how sugar was terrible for the diet, while Lestrade could only laugh at how Mycroft didn't even need a diet. John and Sherlock found a way to take a picture of him and Mycroft together. It was just a spontaneous picture, but it was lovely.

_"Greg,"_ Mycroft called out to him. Lestrade looked back at the sniper. The sniper rose his arm in the air; Lestrade was not ready.

_Smack!_ The cold metal stuck across his skull, hitting him on the side of his head on the right side. It felt as though someone with an iron fist had punched him. His neck whipped down, his head turning at a fast rate. If his head was not pounding before, it was then. He let out a painful sigh; it hurt. He could already feel the little imprint grazed into his skin. He felt the sniper's hand grab his chin and turn him again, his face looking right at the man. He could feel the dirty fingertips digging into his skin, the grimy skin sliding into his pores. Lestrade's breathing was getting harder; his head started to pound. Moriarty was smiling.

"Oh, he took the first one so well! Four more, government!" Lestrade heard a slight shift on the other end.

_"He has no reason to be attacked,"_ Mycroft called out. Lestrade closed his eyes; Moriarty started to chuckle.

"Oh, but you do," he whispered. Lestrade couldn't tell if he was talking to Mycroft or himself. It was too hard to think at that point. He opened his eyes and looked over at the other man. The sniper held his face in place, making sure his neck would not relax and keep it on its side. Once it was in position (Lestrade had to hold it there) he lifted his arm again. Lestrade bit the inside of his lip; the cold metal struck again.

Same place, same pinpoint accuracy. He could feel something crack—was it his skull? He could feel his head pounding in that one spot, the pain pulsating against the skin. There was blood trickling down his head now, dripping down onto his shirt. Lestrade could barely see the blood dripping, but there was a little red spot growing like wildfire. Moriarty was turning to see the side of the head. "Oh, he's bleeding!" Lestrade swallowed; it tasted like copper. Some of the blood was seeping through the duct tape. He could already feel some kind of welt forming on the side of his head, a bruise aching to go away. The more blood trickled down, the more it hurt.

The sniper did not touch him this time; Lestrade moved his head back to rest. He needed a moment, just one moment. But he wasn't given one. Right when he moved his head back, the sniper hit him again, this time in the jaw. He felt his jaw twitch; it was in the nerve. It was close to dislocation, but it wasn't there. It hurt, his legs started to twitch. He could feel his fingers itching at his palms, shaking at all the adrenaline coursing through him. The back teeth were bleeding. He brushed his tongue over them and felt the gums swollen. He groaned just a tiny bit, breathing in and out at a faster rate. He couldn't spit out the blood, he had to swallow it. It was an awful taste, but it wasn't much. He closed his eyes and moved his head back. Two more, he thought.

_"Greg,"_ Mycroft called out again. He sounded worried. Lestrade opened his eyes, looking over at Moriarty. He started to move away from the sniper and Lestrade. _"What will it take for you to stop this, Moriarty?"_ Moriarty smiled.

"Nothing," he whispered. Lestrade looked back at the sniper, an eye getting a little swollen. Two more, he thought. The arm rose, then contact. It was on the cheek. More of his gums started to bleed, but not much. He felt his whole half of his face start to pulsate in pain, warm from the attacks. He swallowed more of the blood, and brought his head back. He wanted this over with; he wanted to rest. The sniper stared down at him. Lestrade could feel a couple teeth loose, ready to fall out. He swallowed again; his body shook.

"Tell me, government, is it worth risking innocent lives like this?"

_"Is this part of the game?"_ Moriarty walked over to the window. He smiled.

"No," he whispered. The sniper rose his arm, Lestrade waited for impact. His swollen eye was closing, bracing for whatever was going to come. But he just stood there, arm suspended in the air. He wondered what was going on. Lestrade just stared at the sniper.

_"No,"_ Mycroft whispered. _"Especially those that do not deserve it."_ Moriarty started to laugh, then it turned into insanity. He doubled over in laughter, just laughing about that statement.

"Oh, government, you fool! Then why are you in such a business? You do it every day, this game with innocent people—why can't I do the same thing?" Mycroft hummed.

_"Because you find fun in it,"_ Moriarty turned his head to the sniper and Lestrade; the sniper looked back at the window. Moriarty smiled.

"Quite right," he remarked. The sniper turned his attention back to Lestrade, then delivered the final blow. It was in the cheek again. It hurt like a bitch. His jaw went slack, his gums bleeding. it was getting harder to swallow, harder to do anything with his mouth anymore. At least it was not dislocated, he thought. He tilted his head and rested it against his left shoulder; his head was pounding. Some of the blood was coming out of his mouth and through the duct tape, dripping down onto his shirt. Sometimes a long string of blood would hang from his face, trailing all the way down his shirt. His face must've been beat red, bruising probably evident, and the wound on the top of his head would probably need stitching. He closed his eyes.

He wanted to rest. The sniper threw the gun onto another table, his eyes shooting open. Looking up at the sniper, he met the cold gaze again. Lestrade would blink slower, feeling his eyes wanting to rest. The warmth of the blood was not helping, either. He played with the teeth inside his mouth, trying to see if any of them were still bleeding (there were a couple, but the bleeding was starting to stop). Then, a sudden clap in the air echoed; Moriarty turned back to the streets and smiled.

"Are you ready for question three, government?"

**x x x x x**

Mycroft closed his eyes as Lestrade was being struck.

And when it was through, he did not open them anyway.

The last time Lestrade had been hurt like this (which wasn't even close, but it was relevant), it was a few months ago. Some man at the bar—he was a bigger man than Lestrade, obvious workouts, but only exercising the arms, nothing else—had punched Lestrade for going out on a date with Mycroft, who thought it would be a good idea because they hadn't seen each other in almost a week. Of course, the man was apprehended the moment he made contact, but besides the point. His eye was swollen beyond belief, and as Mycroft knelt down next to Lestrade (who was on his back laughing), he heard Lestrade say: "He thinks that'll stop me? Stop us?" Mycroft shook his head.

_ "Are you ready for question three, government?"_

He opened his eyes.

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock and John. John had his head down, staring at the ground, his hands on his head. Sherlock just looked forward. It was torture for all of them. Mycroft turned his attention back at the window, ignoring those moving around on the roof of the building at his command.

"Ask," he demanded. Moriarty smiled.

_"Grand! I wish to play this as much as you!" _Mycroft felt his grip on the phone tighten; he would rather deal with diplomats then ever do such a thing again. He desperately wished to go to Lestrade's side, but he would not risk such a thing. He had already risked it once; it was enough. _"Do you think Sherlock will be able to catch me on his own?" _An opinion question, he thought. Unfair, considering anything could be wrong. It was personal taste. Mycroft looked over at his brother for a moment. He saw the determination in his brothers' eyes, but there was something there that said otherwise. Sherlock looked at Mycroft.

"No," he replied. "He has no resources at his desire." Sherlock grimaced.

"You do not possess the resources I need, Mycroft."

"They are not your resources to begin with, brother."

"If you would so kindly give them to me, I would catch him faster than your precious men."

John pushed off his chair and stood between them. "Enough! Christ, could you stop arguing for one bloody minute?" Sherlock looked at John; Mycroft turned back to the window and watched as Moriarty made another 'x'. Mycroft closed his eyes in frustration.

_"Oh, Sherlock dear, he doesn't think you can! I think you can. In fact, I know you can." _He opened his eyes again. Mycroft made a small step toward the window.

"You cannot ask such fruitful questions. They are personal opinions," Sherlock tapped his foot against the floor.

"It is not a personal opinion; it is about the truth." Mycroft said nothing, John shooting a cold look to his flatmate. Moriarty sang.

_"Ohhh, government, are you upset at rebellion? Figures," _he replied. _"Break his ankles." _Mycroft did not move. John turned his head toward the older brother.

"Do something, Mycroft, stop him!" John begged him. Mycroft blinked.

"I am," he said. John sighed; he was right. Mycroft loosened the grip on the phone. "Greg," he whispered. "Do not worry," Moriarty started to laugh.

_"Ha! Did you hear that, Detective Inspector? He says don't worry, like he is giving you hope! You're the one in pain here, you're the one that is getting tortured, not him! He's not receiving the pain, you are! He doesn't care about you! He only cares about himself! Just like the government," _Moriarty finally stopped.

Mycroft kept his firm ground. "Do not listen to him, he is trying to play with your head." Moriarty tapped against the window; Mycroft could hear the glass against his fingernails.

_"Government, you don't get it. I'm not playing with his head; he already knows." _

Mycroft could hear something in the background thrashing about, a chair making the littlest noises. The wood was clanking against the wooden floorboards, trying to scoot away from whatever was there. There was little screeching here and there; Lestrade was trying to move. Mycroft watched him move away from the window. _"Want to hear it again?" _Mycroft turned his head away from the window and looked down at the street. More of his men were in disguise, but they couldn't do anything. Not until Lestrade was safe.

Sherlock stared at his brother. "He will win, Mycroft," Mycroft turned back to his brother.

"He will fall," he replied. Moriarty was heard sitting down on the ground, next to Lestrade; the noises from the chair were getting louder. Mycroft moved his eyes down to the ground.

_"Oh, front row seats! Government, listen! It's your foundation breaking," _Lestrade could be heard panting, preparing for the pain. Mycroft watched as John rose from the chair and stared at Mycroft. Then, they both listened. They all listened.

Somewhere between Moriarty talking and John looking at Mycroft, someone had grabbed one of Lestrade's ankles and started to twist. Mycroft could hear the groans and pains come from Lestrade, screaming out for someone to help him. Mycroft bit the inside of his lip.

He was starting to get weak. Mycroft was trying to stay strong for both of them, but he didn't want this for Lestrade.

They even talked about something like this before. It was some time ago, he couldn't remember the day. But they were watching something on the telly as Mycroft was doing some paperwork. Lestrade leaned against him and sighed. "Mycroft, you really shouldn't be in the government. It's pretty dangerous. What if something happens to you? Or to me?" Lestrade hooked his arm around Mycroft's and pulled his hand away from the folder of work. Holding his hand, Mycroft leaned against his partner and frowned.

"Then we deal with it the best we can. Soon, I'll retire. We'll be okay."

Then, a sudden snap. It was the smallest crack that he could hear, but it was the loudest scream Lestrade had made. Mycroft felt himself twitch at the scream. He could tell Lestrade was crying, that he was in pain, so much pain. And he couldn't do anything but listen. He heard the lame ankle slam against the floor, Lestrade panting, groaning, taking in sharp intakes of air, and trying to move away still. But someone was keeping him in place, keeping him there for a reason. Mycroft was feeling nauseous.

Then it started again. The pain, the twisting, the cracking—everything was over in a few moments. Moriarty was giggling like a schoolgirl; John was shaking his head in disgust; Mycroft leaned against the wall; Sherlock did nothing. Lestrades' screams were deafening enough, crying out for someone to help him. The muffled cries were torture, the lame ankle slamming against the ground again. He could hear Lestrade coughing, as though he would throw up because of all the pain. He could hear him panting and wheezing, trying to be okay from everything. The groans tried to kill the pain, but it wasn't helping—they were getting louder.

(Lestrade, on the other hand, was trying to stay awake. He felt his eyes hurt, his ankles in excruciating pain. He never felt this before. He could feel his stomach churn, his lungs spasm because of how hard it was to breathe. His neck hung as he looked down to the ground; his ankles just sat there, his blood growing on his shirt from his head. His hands were balled into fists, his arms shaking, his legs twitching in every direction, and the rest of his body the same way. Lestrade wanted to throw up, but he knew he would suffocate; he did his best to not do a thing but breathe. The sniper rose from the ground, brushed off his knees, and stared down at Lestrade. He noticed Moriarty bouncing up and down like a kid, but still keeping that same cold gaze on his body. He didn't know if he could even make it three more rounds.)

Mycroft heard Lestrade's groans die away; Moriarty was walking away. Mycroft could still hear him in the background, still wheezing at all the pain he was enduring. "Greg," he said. He was stern, but he was falling. Moriarty clapped.

_"Wonderful show, government! You should've been here!" _Mycroft shook his head.

"You will not get away with this," he uttered. Moriarty was silent for only a moment, then he hoarsely whispered:

_"Oh, but I already am," _he continued in his normal tone, _"How is it to have a taste of your own medicine? Isn't it lovely?" _John shook his head, then yelled out to the person on the other line.

"That's all you care, isn't it? That it's all a game, that it's just so bloody wonderful," Moriarty groaned.

_"Keep your pet in check, Sherlock. I would hate to have to sick my own pet on yours," _Sherlock's lip twitched, and John looked down at him. Mycroft watched as Moriarty came back into view. _"Question four is right here. Are you giving up politics soon, government?" _Mycroft did not hesitate.

"Yes."

_"Good answer! You are right! Oh, pet, untie the poor thing, I think his feet are awfully tired of being tied up," _Mycroft watched him turn his head; there was a slight pause._ "as if he were using them anyway,"_ The silence was killing him.

It was screaming for someone to save it. But no one would come and be their hero.

Mycroft looked over to Sherlock. "You must stop your game immediately," he remarked to his younger brother. Sherlock wanted to say something, but Moriarty beat him to it.

_"Oh, Sherlock doesn't need to do a thing! He is quite lovely, isn't he? Leave him be,"_ Mycroft did not look away from Sherlock; John looked at his flatmate.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock looked at John.

"You know why it cannot be stopped, John," Sherlock whispered. John closed his eyes and shook his head, sitting back down in his chair.

_"Dear government, do you want the next question? Or should we take a small intermission?" _Mycroft shook his head at Sherlock and whipped his head back to the building across the street; he was not in the window. Tapping his fingers against his thumb, Mycroft was getting frustrated at everything. He was the British Government, for goodness sakes, but he couldn't do anything for someone that was across the street. It bothered him to no end. _"Hmm?" _Mycroft briefly closed his eyes. _"This is the part when you'd have an answer, government! Don't tell me you have nothing for me or your precious partner!" _

"Let's play the game, James," Mycroft said. Then, something happened. Suddenly, there was shuffling through the flat; Mycroft furrowed his brows. What was going on? Then, a _crash!_

He opened his eyes and saw the glass raining down on the streets. He saw Moriarty's hand retreating from outside and the little shards collapsing with the rest of the window. The hand entered the room again and stayed back in the shadows. _"Don't say my name like that!" _Moriarty screamed. Mycroft did not show it, but he was scared for Lestrade's life. John and Sherlock looked at the phone; Mycroft kept scanning for Moriarty, any kind of life inside that flat. But there was no one there. A monstrous whisper came through the phone: _"Mycroft Holmes, stay put." _

The line went dead.


	3. Part 3

**Title: **"Questions and Answers"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_Ongoing; multi-chaptered. This chapter = ~3,300_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>M  
><strong><br>A/N: Not much going on in this chapter-well, there is. I'm just not telling you here LOL**

**Also, blasphemous that Sherlock did not win an Emmy this year! Christ, the show needs more recognition than it gets :(**

**Oh well.**

**Anyway, I've re-learned today that Mystrade is most definitely canon. Figured it out myself. Oh, you don't believe me? Let me direct you to the "Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans" story ACD wrote. Near the end, Mycroft and Lestrade see Sherlock and John after breakfast. _AFTER BREAKFAST._**

**I rest my case, those that don't think they're canon. Damn.**

**Enjoy! (You'll hate me next chapter, so better enjoy it while you can.)**

**(Also, next chapter has a smut scene. I'll warn you about it next chapter, but...yeah.)**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

Lestrade was shaking. All the pain that went through his body, and this small man was jumping around, taunting him. As if he were saying 'Look! I can do something so simple, but you can't do it!' He didn't know how much longer he would last while all the pain was going through him; his head was pounding, the blood slowly spilling out of his skull, his gums swelling against his tongue. Meanwhile, his feet just lay on the ground, unable to do anything; just his legs stretched out toward the man that stood next to him, in some way to get rid of the pain (it wasn't working). He heard the new set of questions, but his ears were ringing—it must've been a side effect to being pistol-whipped. Everything around him was getting darker, as though the furniture was blending with the wallpaper. The man next to him hardly moved; he wondered if he were real at times (must've been another side-effect).

Moriarty started to walk over to Lestrade, smiling all the more. "Dear government, do you want the next question? Or should we take a small intermission?" Part of Lestrade wanted a break, but what if Moriarty attacked him on a whim while on break? He knew sociopaths got bored—what would he do to cure his boredom (was Moriarty a sociopath? Or a psychopath? Lestrade was getting confused)? The other part wanted this to end, wanted it to stop. Then, resting a hand on Lestrade's shoulder, he looked…sympathetic.

Mycroft gave him that look sometimes, when he burned the food, or ordered the wrong thing on the menu. It wasn't a sense of pity, no, it was something different. Mycroft would always wrap his arm around Lestrade and tell him it was okay. It was mutual.

"Hmm?" Lestrade felt the vibrations from the hum shake through him; he hated the feeling.

He was used to Mycroft's hums at night, when they laid in bed together. Mycroft would bring Lestrade in his arms—Lestrade always found them to be strong, but Mycroft would fight him if he said that—and just hum. It usually put Lestrade to sleep, especially if he were humming some tune the two of them were fond about.

Moriarty spoke again. "This is the part when you'd have an answer, government! Don't tell me you have nothing for me or your precious partner!" Moriarty stared right into his eyes. Lestrade had words, oh he did. If the damn duct tape was not there, he would've yelled right in his face. But he just kept breathing.

_"Let's play the game, James." _Lestrade suddenly felt Moriarty's grip on his shoulder tighten, then his arm started to shake. Lestrade looked at the arm, eyes wide. What was Mycroft doing? He knew he was not happy with that name. While looking at Moriarty, he felt the hand tear away in frustration, then he stomped across the room. He was like a child. Then, _crash!_ Lestrade jumped at the sound. He watched as Moriarty suddenly thrashed through the glass and screamed out.

"Don't say my name like that!" Lestrade leaned back in his chair; this was a different side to Moriarty. It was like he unleashed a beast inside. His voice echoed through the walls, making the floors shake, and he watched as different shards from the window clinked against the ground. Lestrade watched Moriarty tear his hand away from the broken window, the knuckles bleeding with shards embedded in the skin. Bloody hell, he thought. "Mycroft Holmes," it was a deep utterance. Lestrade was panicking; what the hell was going on? "stay put." He threw the phone down on the table near the window in this fit of rage; he must've hung up on Mycroft.

(Mycroft would just stare at the phone the entire time, wondering when the next call would come. And every once in a while, he would slam his umbrella against anything and everything. The frustration would not cease to anger him.)

Lestrade watched the man at the window stand still. He was not tending to his hand, was not doing anything. Just staring at the ground, that's all he was doing. The man next to Lestrade was looking at his master, cold eyes looking straight ahead. Then, Moriarty's head snapped to the both of them. Lestrade felt his heart pound against his chest, his lungs finding it hard to breathe. He did not want this, he wanted to run. He needed to run away, why were his ankles lame? Why did he become disabled the moment before this? Damn Mycroft, he thought.

Lestrade watched as he looked back down to the floor, closing his eyes. Suddenly, Moriarty straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders back and forth, brushing his hands over his suit. There were little streaks of blood down his suit now, little shards scattering across the floor with the other shards. He took in a deep breath, then let it all out. It looked as though he were the most relaxed man on the planet, yet he was seething with anger. Moriarty rolled his head back in their direction, staring at them with a blank face. Lestrade couldn't read him; he could only see his dark eyes through the darkness. The man next to him took a step forward, and so did Moriarty, slightly turning toward them. But the man didn't move anymore; he stood in position, ready to strike. Moriarty, however, started to walk.

A slight move by Moriarty's right hand (the injured hand) made Lestrade a little uneasy. What was in his hand? He couldn't see it; the hand was hidden. Lestrade swallowed the saliva mixed with blood in his mouth and prayed to God he was not dying. He knew there was a possibility that there was a gun there. He knew that. This was a crazed criminal he was talking about. The man next to him stayed perfectly still. Moriarty took another step toward them, then stopped about five feet away from Lestrade, about a foot away from the other man. Moriarty just looked at Lestrade, though, staring right at him. He showed nothing. Lestrade felt his head become heavy from sitting upright, so he tilted his head, staring at both men. His eyes flicked back and forth between the two, the room spinning. This is it, he thought. Well, I've lived a fine life.

Moriarty blinked. Lestrade stared. The man spoke for the first time. "Sir." Lestrade looked over at the man; it was the first time he spoke since being in the room. But he saw Moriarty's eyes suddenly dash at the man next to him, quickly swivel into position, then _bang!_ Lestrade closed his eyes, feeling a little spray of blood splash against his clothes and face. A quick _thud_ was heard against the floorboard, followed by a grand puddle of blood drowning his feet.

Lestrade gulped; he didn't want to open his eyes, but Moriarty would force them open anyway. He slowly opened them, seeing the man's palm facing up, the fingers curled in different manners. His eyes followed the arm up to the chest, where Lestrade did not see a hole. The amount of blood was growing as the body lay there, motionless. Slightly moving, Lestrade moved his head again and saw the hole: right side of the man's head, clean shot. The wound was squirting blood while the exit wound created a pool. There was blood everywhere. The man's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. The lips were going paler by the minute.

Moriarty took another step toward him; Lestrade dashed his eyes over to his captor. Jesus, he thought. What the hell did I get myself into? Moriarty stopped right in front of Lestrade, staring down at him. Then, he smiled. Lestrade could feel the gun tap against his knee (Lestrade was trying to at least push himself away from the man, but without working feet, it was a trouble). The right hand of the Devil then slid up his knee and gradually up his thigh, as Moriarty started to lean forward down to Lestrade's face. He leaned as far as he could away from him, but Moriarty just smiled. The left hand rose to his face and he felt a finger trace underneath his chin; the other hand squeezed his upper thigh, a few fingers tracing the skin. He could feel the gun. His right leg twitched, but he just breathed.

Moriarty met eye to eye with Lestrade, smiling all the more. But it wasn't an 'I'm insane' smile, no—it was more the 'it's okay' smile. Lestrade just stared. "Don't worry, I won't kill _you_," he said to Lestrade, "I just hate the sound of that name. Do not call me that, if you would be so kind. Better yet, tell your partner over there to stop calling me that," Lestrade didn't move; Moriarty pulled away from him. He started to breathe again, panting and trying to make sense of everything. His feet were getting warm; his head was pounding; he felt violated.

Moriarty threw the gun across the room (Lestrade watched it ricochet against the wall and drop next to a dresser) and walked to the window again. "Ah! Now I feel fantastic! Although, I do hate having to dirty my hands now. Such a shame, that pet was a doll. Oh well!" Moriarty leaned over to the table and grabbed the phone again. He then turned to Lestrade and grinned. "Oh, you're going to love what I have in store for you, it'll be a dream come true for both of us!" Lestrade closed his eyes and let his head fall to his shoulder. He needed some support, and he couldn't stand looking at the dead body that sprawled next to him (he didn't stretch his legs anymore; it would've brushed against the hand).

One ring after another, Moriarty just stood there, tapping his foot away, humming a little song. Finally, a click. "Sorry, government, I had a bit of a meltdown earlier. I hope you know not to do something silly like that again," a little pause.

Mycroft answered: _"My apologies, Moriarty." _Lestrade sighed; for being a pompous ass most of the time, Mycroft did know how to be a gentleman. _"I'll see that I do not make such a slip-up."_

Moriarty giggled. "Brilliant! And I see you have not moved from your position. Grand performance, soldier," (in actuality, Mycroft did move from his spot once. He moved to stand in front of Sherlock, talking down to him, mostly about how this had gone far enough. Sherlock just stared up at his brother before Mycroft moved back to the window, staring at the broken glass that used to be whole.) "I knew I could trust you for some reason. Now, are you ready? We are on the fifth, do not lose count," Mycroft chuckled.

_"You are doing a fine job of keeping count," _Moriarty turned his head to Lestrade and stood there, mouth agape, smiling.

"I like you, government, really I do. You might not like the methods I dish to your partner, but you are admired by the likes of me," Mycroft made no noise before he spoke.

_"You have not hurt him, have you? You musn't go against your own rules," _Moriarty turned back to Baker Street.

"No, no! Although, I can't say the same for my pet. Sherlock, love, how _do_ you manage to keep yours alive for so long?" There was nothing but silence. Lestrade just listened, wanting to hear Mycroft's voice. "Well, no need to stand around anymore! Fifth question: are all three of you still in the same room?" Lestrade slowly opened his eyes; he was getting tired. He had to stay awake, to hear the answer, but it was getting harder and harder to stay awake. He wanted to sleep the pain away.

_"Yes. Would you like to know where each are positioned?" _Lestrade noticed Moriarty shake his head, then turning to face Lestrade.

"Not at all, government. I know you are right! Now, shall we take off this dreaded duct tape? I think he's earned the right to speak, don't you think?" Moriarty was quickly in front of him, bending over to look at him. "Hm, he does look a little pale." Lestrade noticed Moriarty tilt his head to take a good look at him. He felt the cold fingers that taunted him before tickle at the back of his chin (he could feel a few hairs coming off from it), tearing off a bit of the corner of tape. He held the phone away from Lestrade and ripped the tape off, possibly taking some of the dry lip with it. Lestrade didn't care.

Another part of him was free. He took in large gasps of air, feeling some pool of blood drool out of his mouth. It was a dark red, very dark red, and it either went on his shirt or down to the still puddle beneath him. Moriarty took a step back. "Oh, look at all the blood he was saving! I suppose I could let you talk for a minute, government. Go ahead, say anything you want," Moriarty held out the phone in the empty air between the two living bodies.

Lestrade looked at his captor, then at his phone. He saw Mycroft staring at him, a small smile on his face. How he loved that smile. "Mycroft," he hoarsely called out. He was not loud, but he was not quiet either. He coughed, feeling the pain of talking succumb his voice. Lestrade could hear a little gasp come from Mycroft. Lestrade could picture a smirk on his face. He let out a small chuckle. "You bastard, quit getting them wrong."

Mycroft spoke: _"I'm sorry." _Lestrade could hear the little tremble in his voice; his eyes started to sting.

"Just get the next two right. I'm counting on you," he said to him. Mycroft didn't say anything; Moriarty did. He started taking large steps back, sort of skipping back to the window. He spun around and walked to the window.

"Oh, a touching moment, but have we forgotten our little game, dear?" Moriarty turned his head and directed his voice to the one in the room. "Detective Inspector, please don't yell anything during the questions, I'd _hate_ to have to silence you," Moriarty turned his head to the flats across the street and smirked. "Now, question six."

**x x x x x **

Mycroft couldn't believe it.

He could finally hear Lestrade's voice. John felt relieved, sure, and he'd be willing to bet Sherlock was feeling the same way (he wouldn't express it in front of Mycroft, though), but Mycroft couldn't believe it either way. It had felt like a century had passed without the world knowing.

_"Mycroft,"_ he could hear him say. Mycroft closed his eyes and let out a large sigh of relief. His body felt heavy; he gained support from the wall next to him. For a moment, he forgot all about this game, all about the pains. He just heard his voice, making everything right in the world. _"You bastard, quit getting them wrong." _Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut more, sadly smiling. He breathed as much air as he could before releasing some of it through his nose. He opened his eyes and looked at the phone.

"I'm sorry," he weakly said. He knew Moriarty could hear the flaw in him, but he didn't care. He needed to let Lestrade know.

_"Just get the next two right. I'm counting on you," _Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the wooden floor and spun it around a bit before opening his mouth to speak. Before he could, he was interrupted.

_"Oh, a touching moment, but have we forgotten our little game, dear?"_ Mycroft opened his eyes and stared at the cold floor. He gripped his umbrella, holding the phone in the air. _"Detective Inspector, please don't yell anything during the questions, I'd hate to have to silence you."_ Mycroft bit his tongue. _"Now, question six. Have you my file on hand?" _

Mycroft didn't know how to answer this. It technically was, but it wasn't. There was some information in the flat that Sherlock could see, but the other file was in the black car outside the flat. He went with his gut.

"No." Moriarty pulled into the shadows again as Mycroft brought his eyes to the window. "The file is not on hand, it is in the car outside the flat." There was no response from Moriarty, just pure silence. He could see John looking back and forth between Sherlock, who was starting to move around in his chair, and him, who wasn't moving at all. He heard a small chuckle.

_"Pity, pity, you still have a file in the flat, don't you?"_ Mycroft scratched the umbrella against the floor.

"While I have a file here, it is not technically yours. It only includes information about your last whereabouts, which are essentially useless at this time," Moriarty chuckled.

_"What a little liar you have become," _he groaned. Mycroft smashed the umbrella's tip against the wood and heard a chair in the flat with him screeched against the paneling.

"Moriarty, it's not false. He has the file right here, all it has is pictures of you travelling about in the city. That's it!" John yelled out to him. Mycroft turned his head to the flatmate and then looked to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at his brother. "What is this proving?"

Moriarty sighed. _"Oh, dear Sherlock, how lovely to hear your voice again! I was starting to fear that something happened! Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. I'm calling it sweet, bitter revenge. Dear government, I know you are right. But you are such a liar." _Mycroft swung his arm across his chest back out, his umbrella swinging in the air with him. The umbrella would smack against the wall. John and Sherlock would stare at him.

"Then you will stop what you are about to do and untie him." Moriarty moaned.

_"Ohhh, good! You're finally coming out! Let it out, let that beast out, Mycroft! I've let mine out. Maybe I will let it out again right now, I'm not sure. Now, small question, not related to the game: front or back?" _Mycroft bit down on his bottom lip, turned to Sherlock.

"What does he mean?" Sherlock just stared. "Tell me!"

Sherlock's eyes twitched. "You expect me to know everything for you? How should I know what he is talking about?" Mycroft slammed the umbrella back down on the floor.

"He and you are the same, you think alike. Tell me what he means," John stepped between the two brothers, holding out his hands.

"He doesn't know, Mycroft!" John shouted to him. Mycroft stared at his younger brother.

"And you call me useless?" Moriarty started to laugh.

_"Isn't this fun! We should do this more often, I love family feuds," _Mycroft could hear a small voice calling out to him. Mycroft turned back to his station and looked up at the dark window; the glass was still broken, but there still was not a soul in that window. _"Hmm, maybe I should decide for you. I think your partner here would prefer the back. Two? Yes, two, I think that's a fantastic number! Open wide, darling," _Mycroft turned his head over to his brother.

Sherlock rose from the chair. "Torture. What do you think he could be taking from the back?"

John leaned against the chair next to him. "Christ," Mycroft closed his eyes. "He's pulling the teeth."

Mycroft's grip on the umbrella tightened. All he could do was listen.


	4. Part 4

**Title: **"Questions and Answers"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_Ongoing; multi-chaptered. This chapter = ~4,000_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>M  
><strong><br>A/N: LOL I'm such a BITCH with cliffhangers. And I'll be a bitch for a few days, because I'm still working on the ending.**

**I know what I want to happen _after_** this, but down the road, ya know? Of course you do, you guys are smart!****

****Mmm, I wonder what'll happen though. Death? Or life? HMM.****

****Anyway, few warnings about this chapter:****

****1) Smut, smut, smut. It's my first time writing it, too, and I'm fucking terrible. Just...TERRIBLE.****

****2) I'm not a doctor. I don't know anything about medicine and junk. So this all might be unbelievable. Just go with the flow, yeah?****

****3) I cried when I wrote this, because I love writing heartbreaking scenes. So. Yep. (you should read my other stories with these two, they're terrifically full of angst. Oh my god, you could taste the angst from your computer screen)****

****I'm done.****

****Enjoy!****

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

"Wait, wait! You said you would untie me if he was right! And now you're going to hurt me for him being right?" Lestrade just realized how terrible he sounded; he sounded like someone had put gauze in the back of his mouth. He'd have to wash the blood away when he got home. Or maybe he could just whisper the rest of the time. Moriarty just stared at him, holding the small, silver instrument in his hand. He could already feel the cold silver against his skin, and it wasn't even close to touching his chin. Then, a small smirk on Moriarty's face made him shiver.

"But he was warned," he whispered. Moriarty didn't turn away from Lestrade, but he called out to Mycroft on the other line. "Government, please hold, I'm going to put you on the bed. I hope you like that position, on your back." Lestrade felt Moriarty's hand tear at his hair again and jerk his neck back, exposing his neck once more. Lestrade clenched his teeth as he smiled. "Now, be a dear, and open." At first, the voice was sweet. But when Lestrade refused, he became vicious. "Open," Moriarty snarled. He pushed his knee against Lestrade's groin, making him gasp in agony—Moriarty stuck the silver instrument inside. It was very cold, and it tasted awful, like dirty, rubbish nickel. Moriarty tore the instrument in two and held its position. "Dear, you might scream."

Lestrade started to pant. Moriarty brought his hand to his bloody cheek and held his face right there. Grabbing hold of one of the molars in the back, Lestrade went to another place.

He had to; he needed to stay sane.

He could've gone anywhere he wanted, but he didn't go far. He went back to the night before, went back to when Mycroft and he were together. It had been far too long since they were together (it had been weeks). Normally, Mycroft would be out doing diplomatic things when Lestrade returned home, or when Mycroft came home, Lestrade would be fast asleep, and they'd happen to pass each other in the morning.

He remembered Mycroft's naked body against his own, hands wandering to explore each and every part of their bodies. Sliding down his back, tickling up his spine, wrapping around his neck, fingers through his hair, trickling down his chest, brushing up his ribcage—Mycroft explored him as he explored Mycroft. He didn't know why he was remembering such a thing at that time. Maybe he could think that pleasure could get him through the torture—but it was torture being away from Mycroft for so long. Hearing Mycroft moan as Lestrade would grind against him, feeling Mycroft push him against the bed as he tried to arch his back—he remembered it all. If he could still move his feet, just the thought of it all would make his toes curl in delight.

"Fuck me," Moriarty whispered, trying to get a grip on the tooth; Lestrade could only hear his own voice rasping to Mycroft.

"Fuck, Mycroft," he whispered to Mycroft. He could still feel Mycroft biting the skin on his neck, sending waves of pleasure down his body. He could remember how he moaned at the slightest movements Mycroft made, how their inner thighs dominated them and made them moan together, whispering each other's names as they locked lips again. Lestrade could never figure out how he could move his tongue like that; it made everything ten times better.

He started to lean his head back, as aggravating as it was for Moriarty. If he was going to die, he might as well have the last memory as Mycroft slipping inside of him at the late hours of the night.

How Mycroft's hands felt against Lestrade's chest as he laid on his back; how Mycroft's lips kissed the bite marks away from just rolling around in the bed; how Lestrade couldn't stop moaning as their throbbing members rubbed against each other while their hips grinded in perfect rhythm… He didn't know how Mycroft could do such a thing, but their pants and moans and little comments here and there and all the hums Mycroft had—it made his head spin. Mycroft would stop, say a comment or two about their little rendezvous ("It seems as though you have missed me. I was worried you were shagging another"), then back to work he went. Even his voice could make him want more.

Moriarty dug his knee more into his groin; Lestrade felt his hand twitch. He could still feel Mycroft pushing against his pulsating erection with as little weight as possible, but how it made him want Mycroft to take him right there. He could remember how Mycroft slid a hand down his chest, how it brushed over the erect nipple, sending a shockwave through his already wanting body. And when that hand went closer and closer to his hips, it made him excited; he wanted more. Mycroft's lips would capture his, exploring each other's mouths; his hand would tease and his fingers would slide up and down his penis, making him moan inside the others' mouth. Mycroft would make a comment ("Hmm," he hummed, "I should do that more often") and left a lingering touch there.

Moriarty placed a firm grip on his tooth.

Mycroft would push Lestrade down, just a bit, against the bed with his free hand, all while pushing into Lestrade with his finger. He remembered how it felt, how deep he went before pulling out. Lestrade closed his eyes and arched against Mycroft (Mycroft moaned). "Christ," he gasped. Mycroft pushed in again, and again, and again. With each one, Lestrade moaned. Mycroft would hum against his lover's chest, the vibrations going down his spine. Mycroft made a comment, but he didn't remember. He just laid there, being dominated by his partner.

When Mycroft pulled out again, the hand slid over to his leg and pushed it back. Lestrade did as he was guided, and held it up, the other as well. Mycroft grabbed the bottle resting on the bed while Lestrade panted, his body shaking. He could hear the bottle squirt, Mycroft's hand rubbing against his own erection, and then the bottle was tossed somewhere else. "Are you ready, love?" Lestrade could hear Mycroft whisper. Lestrade chuckled, feeling Mycroft at his entrance. Panting, he looked Mycroft in the eyes and bit on his bottom lip. Then, he spoke.

"Do it," he whispered. Mycroft placed both his hands on the mattress, on either side of Lestrade, and pushed forward. At first, Lestrade arched his back, taking in a large amount of air at the pleasure of it all. But, then, the pain came.

And this time, it was much, much worse. It wasn't that painful, he remembered.

Lestrade shot open his eyes and screamed. Moriarty held high the back molar in the pliers, twisting it around to marvel at it, while Lestrade's body started to shake in pain, breathe in and out at a heavier rate, blood pouring into his lap and onto Moriarty's knee (who didn't seem to mind the blood). A long, constant stream of blood came to fall from his mouth as he felt different parts of his body twitch at the constant pain. He was sure his knuckles had turned white, that his one side of the face was swollen, that everything was going dark. He brushed his tongue against the fresh wound; it was very sensitive. He retracted. He coughed up more blood as it fell on his lap and on Moriarty's suit.

_"Greg?" _Lestrade closed his eyes. Ah, a familiar voice. He spat out as much blood as possible before speaking.

"…Mycroft," he whispered. Moriarty brought a hand to Lestrade's chin and tilted his head back, meeting eye-to-eye once more. When he coughed, blood started to drool down his chin. "I'm here," he called out. His voice sounded terrible, as though it were drowning in blood (funny how that happened).

_"You are not one to die so easily, as I recall," _Lestrade chuckled, smiling back to the remark.

Yes, he thought. I have almost died once before, in a shootout with a few serial killers. A couple shots in the chest, with one bullet in the arm—this is nothing. Moriarty loosened his grip on the pliers and the tooth fell to the ground. Lestrade swallowed the blood in his mouth; the taste wasn't bothering him anymore, he just wanted to talk.

"Looks like we'll be here for a while," he mumbled through all the blood. Moriarty smirked.

_"We have all the time we need." _Lestrade closed his eyes as he felt the silver pliers slip back into his mouth. Moriarty gripped the other back molar he aimed to take.

Lestrade remembered how Mycroft's fingers traced against the scars on his chest and back. It was a constant reminder of his life, and how much he lived through; he was sure Mycroft would do it again with these battle scars. "You shouldn't have risked your life like this," Mycroft said, as his fingers went against the bullet wounds. Lestrade just smiled.

"Then you shouldn't risk your life in the government," and Mycroft smiled back.

Moriarty spoke: "Your time is running out." Another forceful yank made the Detective Inspector cry out once more.

**x x x x x **

Mycroft stared at the phone in his hand as Lestrade screamed again; John closed his eyes and kept his head turned away from Mycroft; Sherlock stood by the window with Mycroft. A few coughs echoed against the walls, a little laugh came from the opposite end of the call, and terrible groans faded in the background. _"Oh my, he's quite the fighter isn't he! Should we tell him that he's fighting a useless war, Sherlock? Oh, dear, you've already figured out what's happening!" _Mycroft stared at his brother; Sherlock stared at the outside world. _"Mycroft, you don't care about this man I have. You only care about your job. If he dies, well! That's too bad! But if I am on the loose again, it'll haunt you. Go ahead, tell this man here that he's being tortured for my entertainment! Go ahead!" _

Mycroft smirked. "You know nothing about my work or what my intentions are in this line of work," Moriarty let out a large _ha!_ and continued on.

_"Ohh, surely you cannot be serious! Wasn't it you that wanted to rule the British Government, no matter the cost?" _Mycroft listened. _"Or was it you that wanted everything he wanted in the palm of his hand, no matter who died? Oh, I cannot remember! Which one do you think it is, dear Lestrade?" _Mycroft just listened to dead silence, then it ended. _"Because, quite frankly, he doesn't think a thing about you! He is just like his brother: cold. But there's one thing that separates them, one teensy little thing; at least Sherlock has a heart. You see, Mycroft has no intention of a relationship with anyone-" _

Mycroft interrupted him. "You will cease this banter and continue this game if you mean well, Moriarty." Moriarty just hummed.

_"Oh why should I stop? Am I closing in on the truth? Oh, we might as well continue!" _Mycroft knew the game he was playing; it wasn't that he was honing in on the truth, not at all._ "Now, where was I…oh yes! He doesn't want a partner because he has no heart. Mycroft Holmes, born without a heart, grew up with the one goal in his mind: to take over the government. And he pushed those down that disagreed, those that said 'I want to join you', those that were willing to work with him. Dear Lestrade, he wants no one by his side, not in his world. There is no room in his world that allows such a partnership. He wants everyone to fear him, not love him! He belongs in the shadows, always lurking in the dark—he belongs alone." _Mycroft heard Lestrade cough again, most likely coughing blood again, and Moriarty's footsteps danced on the other end. _"So you see? He hasn't once tried to rescue you, and you know why? He's not scared; he knows nothing of fear because he's the government. No, no, this is all part of the job. Let's call it…training. You're his guinea pig; I'm his hired hitman." _Mycroft felt both Sherlock and John look at him, as though it were true.

Mycroft bit the inside of his mouth. _"Oh, look at me ramble! Silly me. Let's move on, shall we? I am growing a bit tired of this game, you are definitely no fun at all! Tell me, government, will you stop at nothing to catch me?"_

"Yes," he replied.

_"And will you kill me once you find me?" _Sherlock glanced down at the phone.

"What are your implications, Moriarty?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft eyed his brother; he did not move. John looked over at his flatmate, his hands barely shaking by the trauma Lestrade was going through.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft just listened to Moriarty on the other end, humming along.

_"Oh, Sherlock, you haven't told him yet? You have those tight lips of yours, so, so lovely. You never want to spoil the fun,"_ A small cough in the background, followed by a gasp—Mycroft knew his answer.

"Yes," he said. Sherlock looked back and forth between the phone and Mycroft, then tore the phone away from his hands. Mycroft watched as his brother paced away from the window, angrily gripping the phone.

"Jim, you will let him go," Moriarty laughed.

_"Sherlock, dear, you think I won't let him go? That'd go against all we have done here!" _Mycroft looked up at the building; nothing. He looked back at his brother and watched him spin around, eyes closed, thinking. He and John just stood there, watching him dance.

"But you are about to go against everything set forth from today," Sherlock remarked. Mycroft raised an eyebrow; he grabbed the phone off the table. He looked back to the building; still nothing. He looked at the messages received from his secretary and those that were on the street—all said "ready". Mycroft texted a few words, then rested his thumb on the send button. He looked back at his brother. "Why do all the work when you will completely demolish what had been set?"

Moriarty sighed. _"Because I was bored, Sherlock. You should know how that feels; haven't you felt bored from it all? Besides, rules are boring, I'd rather go against them." _John walked over to Sherlock, who was most obviously thinking.

"Sherlock, what is he talking about?" Sherlock opened his eyes and slightly shook his head.

_"Congratulations, government!" _Mycroft stood near the window, looking at his brother's back. _"You won! Your precious Detective Inspector gets to be off the hook from all this torture and you get to have me! But, hmm," _Moriarty started to hum; it was drawled out. John kept his eyes on Sherlock. _"if I remember correctly, we never specified what actually happens to him." _

John's eyes widened, turning to Mycroft. Mycroft lowered his arm with his phone in hand and started to walk toward Sherlock. Sherlock started to tap his foot. Sherlock spoke for them. "You will let him go, that was the deal."

Moriarty chimed again, this time drawing out the first word. _"Weeell, actually, we never said if he would be alive or dead when let go," _Mycroft pushed the 'send' button as soon as the sentence ended. They all hovered over the phone and listened. _"Did you all honestly think he would survive this ordeal? Hmm, I must've underestimated you all."_ John was flickering his eyes back and forth between the two brothers. Sherlock handed Mycroft the phone._ "You can say your last words to him. I might as well honor his wish for a final word, since he's been through so much."_

John ran over to the window, noticing all the men running into the building. "Mycroft-" he turned around and saw Mycroft hovered over the phone. He put his own cell phone on the island in the kitchen, while holding the phone that held his partner's life on the other end. Sherlock turned around and looked at John. "Did you know about this?" he whispered. Sherlock paced around the flat a bit, grabbing different items, then heading downstairs. John looked at Mycroft, then back at the stairs. He knew he had to go. He left Mycroft alone.

Mycroft closed his eyes and spoke. "Greg."

**x x x x x **

Lestrade tried to drown out Moriarty in his little speech to Mycroft. Mycroft wasn't any of that; he knew that. He was trying to get Lestrade to hate Moriarty, but he knew he couldn't. He couldn't, because he loved him. Oh, how he loved him. And when he would get out of this, he would love the hell out of that man. Possibly punch him first, but first and foremost, love him.

He closed his eyes and listened to Moriarty talk on and on next to him on the bed, swinging his legs like a little schoolgirl. He just went back to picturing the little walks he would have with Mycroft, how it felt to feel someone's hand holding his back. He could see Mycroft resting on the couch, doing paperwork, while he was just walking through the door, after a long day. But no matter what was going on, there was always a moment of sincerity between the two. If one had a terrible day, the other would be there. If they were arguing with each other, five minutes later, they'd be okay. Mycroft would whisper his "I love you", and Lestrade would do the same. And then Mycroft would say he wouldn't possibly want his life any other way; Lestrade would hum in agreement.

When he opened his eyes, Moriarty was at the window_. _"Oh, look at me ramble! Silly me. Let's move on, shall we? I am growing a bit tired of this game, you are definitely no fun at all! Tell me, government, will you stop at nothing to catch me?" Lestrade watched his every movement, watched him stare straight at the flat across the street. His hand was resting against the window pane; his other hand was holding the phone straight in the air.

_"Yes," _Mycroft said. Lestrade hoped it was right. He noticed the hand moved off the window pane, just resting on his side. Lestrade closed his eyes. He was ready for his torture.

"And will you kill me once you find me?"Lestrade opened his eyes again. That was odd, he thought. Usually, Moriarty said if Mycroft were right or wrong. Lestrade saw Moriarty turn his attention to him, smiling. He didn't turn his body, but just stood at the window. He knew they were saying something, but the ringing in his ears was deafening.

With his head tilted, he was struggling, trying to get out of the ropes. He didn't care what Sherlock had to say (he knew his voice); he just wanted to leave. He could crawl out if he had to. He could feel his feet slipping in the blood on the ground, creating no traction. He looked to Moriarty and saw the same smile on his face. Something was making him laugh; something was making him walk to him. Lestrade started moving his arms, started looking for what it was. Then, a little glimmer shined in the room—the object in Moriarty's hand.

What was it?

"You won! Your precious Detective Inspector gets to be off the hook from all this torture and you get to have me!" Lestrade stopped. He…he was going to be let go? Mycroft actually won? He closed his eyes in relief; he was thankful for everything in life, everything that saved him. "But, hmm, if I remember correctly, we never specified what actually happens to him."

His eyes shot open.

Moriarty was standing in front of him, a large shard of glass in his hand.

In the other, the phone rested inside his fingers.

Lestrade opened his mouth (little spots of blood came down his chin and onto his shirt), but before he could say a word, Moriarty rested the glass on his lips, cutting them. Moriarty just stared down at him, talking to Mycroft (through his daze, he could hear him).

No, he thought. No, this wasn't fair! I should be getting out alive!

Moriarty spun around his chair, standing behind him. "You can say your last words to him. I might as well honor his wish for a final word, since he's been through so much."

Then, the phone was resting on his lap. He looked down at it for a brief moment, seeing the picture again. His eyes stung. Moriarty brought his hands under his chin and tilted his head back, making him stare at the ceiling. He remembered feeling like this, feeling as though he were going to die. He was in the hospital before.

_"Greg." _He sounded weak. Lestrade closed his eyes; he couldn't look at Moriarty, not when Mycroft was talking.

"I'm here, Mycroft," he said. He sounded weak, too, but he had an excuse. He was tired. He felt the glass tickle at his neck. "I'm always right here."

_"I'm sorry." _(Mycroft hung his head.)

"For what?"

_"It is my fault that you have been caught in the middle of all this. You were right, it is far too dangerous to be in the government You must hate me." _(Mycroft closed his eyes.)

"Don't. It's okay. I don't hate you."

_"You should. If it weren't for me, for what I belong to, you would be here in the flat with the rest of us."_ (He shook his head.)

"I don't. And won't. Whatever happens, I love you, alright? You hear me?"

_"Greg-" _(His lips started to tremble.)

"No, Mycroft, stop. Stop, you have to stay strong. You'll be a strong leader; leaders don't cry. Your henchmen, on the other hand, well, I can't help that." Lestrade could feel the tears falling.

_"Greg-"_ Lestrade could hear people running down the hallway in the building, shouting orders. The glass was pushed against his throat. Moriarty kissed his forehead; _"—I love you more." _

A small smile graced his lips. Then, the glass was pushed into his skin, blood pouring out. A slow, drawn out slice went across, more and more blood gushing from the veins. Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut and felt it drip down his shirt. Moriarty's lips left his forehead; the glass shard disappeared. His hands were then cut loose, his head falling forward. In one nudge, Moriarty sent Lestrade to the floor in the rest of the blood, splashing the red content onto the other body inside.

The phone fell to the floor next to Lestrade, and as he opened his eyes, he saw the two of them smiling. He started to cough, started to gag on the blood. He tried to breathe, tried to do something, but it was so hard. Everything was getting harder and harder to do; it would be so simple to close his eyes and sleep. He heard the door open from behind, men swarming in to take Moriarty away. He could hear Moriarty laughing, calling out to those around about his work. "You finally caught me, my dear! Tell me, was it everything you dreamed?" Lestrade just stared at the phone on the ground, looking at Mycroft.

A few slid on the ground and rolled him over; he could hear Mycroft calling out to him. _"Greg, hold on."_ But it was getting too hard. He saw John hovering over him with the sheets from the bed, no matter how bloodied they were. He pushed down on his neck, another pushing against the wound on his head. John's eyes were scanning the wound, muttering something to the other people. He could feel the blood pulse against the sheets on his neck. Just for a moment, he thought. I'll open them again.

He closed his eyes.


	5. Part 5

**Title: **"Questions and Answers"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_Ongoing; multi-chaptered. This chapter = ~2,700_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>M  
><strong><br>A/N: Well I guess I figured out the ending, even though I didn't change a thing. And it's a bit...over-the-top, but I like being over the top, oh yes I do. **

**Doesn't hurt, right? Sorry to keep you waiting.**

**Anywho, it's the last chapter! Aw, so sad! It was fun, right? 8)**

**Enjoy! And thanks for all the lovely reviews, hits, alerts, everything. You guys are lovely.**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

Mycroft was already across the street when Lestrade had been pushed to the floor. Every step he took, he became anxious. What if Lestrade were dead when he got to the place? What would he see? What would Lestrade look like? How severe would the wounds be? He didn't want to walk, he wanted to run. But he couldn't. As he reached the abandoned building (he was grateful for one thing), his men took up every inch of the surrounding area. Once he arrived, however, it was like the parting of the Red Sea; they moved when he was there.

So he climbed the stairs. One by one, he climbed them, feeling each step get heavier and heavier. He dreaded going up the stairs. What if Lestrade were lying there with others around, putting some kind of sheet over him? What if he were alive? What would John be doing to save his life?

When he reached the floor, he saw Moriarty pinned against the wall by his men, Sherlock next to him, talking about something (most likely Sherlock saying how they were different after all). The two of them shared a glance, Moriarty smiling. The men turned him around and pushed his back against the wall. "Ah, the man himself, the British Government at work. Tell me, Mycroft Holmes, has the government done everything in its power to save this man?" Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the ground.

"Have you done everything to kill a man?" Mycroft whispered. Moriarty looked pleased.

"I told you I hate getting my hands dirty," he replied. Mycroft stared at the man for a moment more, then turned away. He would not deal with him, not yet. He pushed through the police tape, pushed through the men. The room was right next to him, but he looked to the ground. He couldn't just look in the room, to have his heart potentially ripped apart by a possibility. He took a deep breath and followed the trail.

He saw the puddle of blood creeping out the doorway.

He saw how dark it was inside.

He saw how dark the blood looked with the shadows against them.

He saw a man lying on the ground, dead.

He saw his men hovering over another body.

He heard John's voice talking to someone.

He saw another one being attended.

Mycroft took a step forward in the room, staring down at his other half. He could only stare at what he had done, what all he was forced to do to him. The bloodied face, the bruising on one side of the face, dry blood against his lips, legs sprawled out in the gigantic amount of blood, hands relaxed, neck torn open—Mycroft saw it all. It sounded terrible on the phone; it looked like Hell in the room. John looked up from Lestrade and waved him over, his hands bloodied beyond belief. John pushed down on the sheet again, and Lestrade stayed still. Mycroft took another step forward and saw his eyes were closed. Mycroft bit the inside of his lip and looked over at John.

But John's face was relaxed. "It's okay, he'll be fine."

Mycroft felt as though he would fall over at that point, hearing that Lestrade would be okay, even though he looked like that. He thanked whomever that was out there that saved him, that would keep him alive. Mycroft had no control of his legs. He rushed over to his side, falling into the blood, on his hands and knees next to Lestrade; he didn't care about his suit. It was just a bloody suit (although he'd get a remark from a few people about it, include Lestrade himself). Lestrade opened his eyes; John held the towel over the wound. Mycroft felt his heart stop, his eyes stinging from the joy he felt.

"Hmm," Lestrade hummed. Lestrade opened his mouth, but stiffened; the pain was becoming too much. John leaned forward, patting him on the shoulder with a hand.

"I wouldn't talk if I were you," he said as he kept the sheet on the neck. Mycroft bent forward and rested his forehead on Lestrade's. He closed his eyes; Lestrade closed his.

"Please forgive me." John looked up at the men Mycroft had and left the two alone.

"He needs to get to a hospital, can you get a gurney up here?" John whispered to the other man. Mycroft brushed through the deep red blood and reached for Lestrade's hand; Lestrade wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's hand. Both felt at ease once more.

Mycroft slightly opened his eyes. "You will be okay?" Lestrade opened his eyes and looked right at Mycroft. He understood. He couldn't talk, yes, but Mycroft could hear him scream "yes" for him. "Please do not die on me," he whispered. Lestrade smirked. John pushed against the neck wound, causing Lestrade to cough a little bit of blood up. Lestrade just nodded. Mycroft closed his eyes and kissed his forehead; Lestrade liked the touch of those lips instead of the others.

Lestrade squeezed his hand; Mycroft squeezed back.

Mycroft pulled away from Lestrade's forehead. He looked at John for answers. John looked down at the cloth. "Moriarty, he missed the main artery. Most people do; he stopped too short."

Mycroft let go of Lestrade's hand. Lestrade stretched his fingers out for his hand, but Mycroft smiled. He looked down at his partner. "I do believe there is business to be finished," he said. Lestrade turned his head the most he could and looked back at Mycroft. Lestrade looked confused. Mycroft rose from the ground, looking at the blood soaked pants, then back to his lover. "Unfinished business." Mycroft tapped his foot against the floor. Lestrade knew the code. He turned his head back to John and gave a small chuckle. John kept pressure on the wound, not questioning their code. While Mycroft did not want to go, he had to. He gave a small look at Lestrade lying on the ground, then quickly left the room.

He looked down the hallway—a group of men were waiting by another room. Sherlock was outside of this door. "Tell me, Sherlock, has this game brought any good out of it?" Sherlock stood in the doorway with Mycroft, then frowned.

"It's kept one of us from boredom," he whispered. Sherlock went inside the room and closed the door, leaving Mycroft to pick off any blood from his shoes with his umbrella. He felt someone come from behind; it was his personal assistant.

"Sir, you may proceed, they have it ready for you." Mycroft looked down the hallway and started to walk. Their clicks of the heels brought the men to attention, prompting him to proceed without any precaution. The men backed away, the two of them entering. When the door opened, he could hear the small chuckles coming from the small criminal, two of his men holding him against a wall.

His personal assistant closed the door; he leaned against his umbrella. Moriarty turned his head. "Ah, government! Oh, so nice of you to join us! Tell me, how is your precious partner?"

Mycroft took a step forward, stepping in front of Moriarty and the two men. Two feet separated them. He looked at the man against the wall and smiled. "You underestimate the government, James," he whispered. Moriarty's face twisted, wanting to scream; Mycroft brought the umbrella's tip against his neck. Moriarty's eyes widened, then he smiled.

It was like he sung: "Oooh, are you going to torture me like I tortured yours? Oh, let me have it, Mycroft Holmes. Let me feel the wrath of the British Government." Mycroft just stood there, holding the umbrella in place.

Then it was his turn to smile. "You stare at the British Government, James, and you stare at its wrath. Torturing you would take time, and I, quite frankly, do not have that to waste on useless resources like yourself. Diplomats are waiting for me, and there's a country to be ruled. Has Sherlock told you about me?"

Moriarty leaned forward against the tip of the umbrella. "You're just another lackey of the British Government, that's all you are. There's nothing more to say about you," and Mycroft's smile grew.

"Ah, but he kept one secret from you," Moriarty stared.

"And what is that?" he whispered. He was dying to know, pushing more and more against the umbrella. Mycroft just stood there, a smile on his face. It was bothering Moriarty, he could tell. It was the one thing he didn't know, and he wanted to know. If Sherlock knew, oh, he wanted to know it more. "Tell me!" He shouted.

Mycroft leaned forward, pushing the umbrella against Moriarty. "I'm the most dangerous man in the world," he whispered. With that, he crashed his umbrella against Moriarty's neck, pushing him against the wall with all his might. The men wrapped their arms around the struggling Moriarty, who was already gasping for air. But in the process, he started to laugh.

And in said process, he managed to look Mycroft in the eye and smile. "Just so," he uttered. Mycroft took a step forward and pushed more into his neck. His gasps were becoming vicious, his body tossing to and fro, but Mycroft kept his grip firm, his stance perfect. He moved forward again, just slightly, and felt the tip of his umbrella pierce through Moriarty's windpipe. As he was choking, as he was coughing up blood, Mycroft could still hear the small constant that was Moriarty's laugh. It was as though he were enjoying it. But Mycroft was not; he pushed once more, cracking something else in his neck. Moriarty stopped gasping for air.

His eyes stared at the ceiling.

A smile was plastered on his face.

His body went limp.

Mycroft tore his umbrella away, noticing the blood pour out of him like a waterfall.

The two men that held him against the wall dropped him, and he crumbled to the ground. Mycroft brought the tip to his face, brushing off any blood on it. Andromeda turned to him. "Sir," she whispered. Mycroft tapped the umbrella back down on the ground, staring at the man reaching out to grab it. He turned his back to her and sighed.

"Quite," he whispered. "Prepare the men for clean-up," he ordered. A small "yes sir" came from her and he walked to the door. Opening it, he saw the gurney coming out of the other room. Sherlock was leaning against the wall of that room, while John was spouting orders to the doctors Mycroft had known, bouncing them back and forth. Mycroft straightened himself off, brushed off as much blood as possible, and closed the door.

Grabbing Lestrade's hand, he smiled. "All taken care of."

Lestrade looked over at him and smiled back.

**x x x x x **

It had been three months since the incident, two long months of rehab, therapy, recovery, and more. Taking a needed leave of absence from his job, he sat through it all. He sat through Lestrade trying to walk in rehab (he still couldn't, it was a bit of a hassle to push him around in a wheelchair), sat through all the tests, the surgeries, the doctors, the nurses, the terrible cafeteria food, everything. He never once left Lestrade's side. And when Lestrade could finally talk again without having to sleep and worry about whether or not his wound would reopen, a small "Thank you" escaped his lips.

He hated the therapy sessions. Lestrade wasn't damaged by the torture—he was fine. Everyone believed he would be damaged by what Moriarty said about the two, but Lestrade knew he was just trying to get under their skin. "He just," he rasped out, "wanted me," another pause, "to die."

But the doctor insisted that there was something wrong, that he could possibly have PTSD. Mycroft paid the doctor a large amount of money to never work in the profession again if he just released Lestrade. Of course, Lestrade would ask why he was suddenly not going to therapy. Mycroft's response? "You're okay." Lestrade would just nod and agree.

They never brought up Moriarty, unless talking about the scars that were left, and if he were brought up, it wasn't as though Lestrade was scarred by it. He would just brush it off and say, "Yeah, and I'm still alive. Can't say the same thing about him, the cheeky bastard."

Mycroft knew there was a reason why he loved him.

And now he was home. The doctors didn't want to release him, not until his ankles healed, but Mycroft found no reason to keep him there. Mycroft had been away for quite some time for the day, and he opened the door to his home. No one was in the living room, which was usually the case. Lestrade hated using the wheelchair ("It makes me look like a fool," he commented, as he found it hard to push himself). When he closed the door, he dropped everything in his hands and made his way through all the other rooms to get to the bedroom.

He peeked inside and saw Lestrade on his back, the two ankles propped up on pillows, with his eyes closed. Mycroft smiled; he always loved seeing Lestrade sleeping. It was a guilty pleasure to watch him. He always looked so peaceful. He quietly walked over to the side of the bed and looked down at the man. His hands were resting on his stomach. There was still a bandage on his neck, still oozing with pus. It would heal, but there would be a scar. The head injuries healed in weeks, barely leaving a scar at all. The two teeth that were torn out, however, could not be put back; they were just gaping holes (Mycroft noticed; there was a grand kiss the first night Lestrade was awake at the hospital).

Mycroft noticed Lestrade smile, the cheeky bastard. "How long are you going to leave me all alone in this bed, waiting for you?" Mycroft smirked.

"Missed me that much?" Lestrade popped an eye open and looked at him.

"Just get in bed," he said. Moving his right arm, he patted the empty space on the bed next to him; Mycroft did not hesitate. Within a moment, he was next to Lestrade, on his side, with an arm around him. He snuggled close to him with an arm wrapping around his stomach and closed his eyes. Lestrade wrapped an arm around him and closed his own. "Besides," Lestrade breaking the silence, "it's boring without you here sometimes. Where did you go?" Mycroft slightly sighed.

"Business," he said.

Lestrade moved his head and looked down at the almost exhausted man next to him. "The office? You are on leave."

"There is still work there that needs attending," he replied.

"You are determined to rule," Mycroft smiled.

"Only if you are by my side," Lestrade carefully moved his body. He brought his other arm around Mycroft and brought him closer to his chest, making sure his ankles would be okay (they would). On his side, he leaned his forehead against Mycroft's and hummed. Mycroft leaned into the vibration.

"It's not the only side I'd want to be on with you in charge," Mycroft opened his eyes and saw Lestrade staring back, a bold look on his face. He knew this look. They both leaned forward, sharing a little kiss on the lips. Mycroft moaned at the touch, then Lestrade pulled away. "Did you know I love you?" Mycroft gave Lestrade a quick peck on the lips, then smiled.

"I have not known of this information. But, I must say," Lestrade felt the small circles Mycroft was making on his back; it wasn't fair, he thought. Mycroft knew how to arouse him. Lestrade moved closer to Mycroft, knowing how to arouse him (Mycroft's arched an eyebrow, slightly closing his eyes as he leaned forward). "I love you more."

Lestrade hummed and closed his eyes. And as he hummed, he could feel the soft lips he loved so much. He could even bet Moriarty was rolling in his pathetic grave, as he knew the man behind the government cared deeply for him. Their lips touched and neither one wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
